Drink up.

Another poem after a small poetry drought... it needs work, but don't they all... Constructive criticism always welcome! Hope you are all well tonight (today, too, if it's day when you stop here.)

A Drink in Sychar

Sandals tied—my feet quiet on back
down his street. Home, if ever there
was one right thing. Just one right man

to stay, to keep. Me: slinging silk
fabrics over my neck; coral and perfume
falling warm on my back; just gold dripping wind—

and I am dust. It’s the farthest minute
I've ever timed. Bells chink over
ankles in heat; running in, out of stone. Check,

sweat beating sand. And home again: another one sleeps
with a scowl lit, his pipe just out. Gathering
my bucket up, go. Well,

go again. For the longest mile ever tripped. Chin
duck down, hair sweep
just out of sight. Slips, then eyes—

fools—you slip. Up. Facing me
with a green blade of grass, he folds
it, unfolds, slides between finger

tips and palms. His upward glance—Give me
a drink—he requests. But, no.
God, another? No, I can’t—it’s

been my every day. Not this one, too…
A Jew? How —? And my stomach: all weak,
all wrong in me. Something’s wrong

with me—if I knew who here speaks, I'd
beg him for a drink, something right,
something clean… Still—his kind

eyes are sure—haven’t judged me just yet…